My life on the other side of the rabbithole

Sigh. I’m very, very tired. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m irritated with disappointed in the hubs, I guess. And I can’t seem to shake it off like I normally would. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t really want to be around him. I can’t explain why. It doesn’t feel good; it doesn’t feel natural and I don’t like myself for it.

I don’t like that I’m held to a higher standard than his father. I don’t like that I get yelled at for being callous and cold and mean when his father has been this way for decades. A father isn’t supposed to treat their child this way. A wife isn’t supposed to treat their husband that way either – I’m aware – but what makes it so easy to jump down my throat and not his?

[Because he won’t change, Alice. Hubs has tried. The man has an untreated severe mental illness, more severe than you.]

I uninvited my own mother from our wedding for him. My mother – who’s been my rock and best friend all my life, not at the most important event in my life because she disapproved of my now-husband. His father disinherits him because he hates me, says we need to divorce because I’m mentally unstable (pot meet effing kettle), tried to fuck my mother and hubs meets with him for lunch every fucking week like nothing’s the matter. What. The. Fuck.

[Don’t do that. Don’t make him choose because you chose. He never asked you to choose between him and your mother; you just did it. His mother’s gone. He’s probably clinging to the hope that one day his father will come around. Plus, hubs said there was no indication the man wasn’t going to disinherit him for just existing. The man has always resented hubs for merely breathing. You’re more than likely the scapegoat – even your father, Alice, said as much. The man is trying his damnedest to split you apart. Don’t let him succeed.]

Sigh. Why can’t I accept that he’s not like me? We know what I would have done well before now in this situation.

[Not many people are like you, dear. And you’re not like him. It took decades for you to forgive your father, decades for you to see your grandmother as she really was and decades for you to accept and respect your mother. Don’t expect to forget the man and what he’s trying to do to your family in 48 hours. But remember hubs is doing what he can for you and your family today.]

…God. Damn. I’m right.

I’m right. He’s doing his best. It’s not my way, but that’s okay. It has to be. What else can I do? None of this is within my control. I think that’s why I’m so angry about it.

I was telling my new psychologist (yeah, I went back to therapy. Mistakes in the process of being made I’m sure) that that’s why I’m such a perfectionist. I need to have control over everything. I don’t have control – a lot of the time – over my mood swings, libido, etc. so I overcompensate by attempting to control the situations – and sometimes people – around me. A lot of the time it works. Some of the time it doesn’t but by trying to control my environment I can control the trajectory of my life (or so I think). When someone or something comes around and is resistant to my ideas or the environment doesn’t adapt to my comfort zone it throws me for a loop. I get anxious, depressed, despondent followed by irritable and indignant.

Selfish, right? Not when you consider my background. It comes from a lifetime of unreliable behavior demonstrated by my superiors. Now that I’m older, if I can exercise any amount of control it eliminates the need for others entirely, thus ensuring there is someone I can always depend on: me. Who else is there but me? I rarely let me down.

In this particular situation I felt let down by the hubs. I felt like he wasn’t defending me. Like the only way to defend/stick up for me was my way. He says he always stands up for me, tries to explain my situation to the man however the man doesn’t believe in mental illness. (Yeah, that explains a whole lot. Explains why someone with a clear alcohol problem and obvious sxs of schizophrenia isn’t seeking treatment but that’s not my fucking problem. Whatever. I digress.). I don’t care if the man believes in fairies, okay? I cared that hubs doesn’t care enough to say, “Hey, believe what you want. I know the truth. Stay ignorant. You don’t like her? Fine. She’s tried to make peace with you but you’re too stubborn to care. So we’re gonna drop it entirely. Leave her name out of your mouth because we’re all over this shit. We’re staying together and plan on having kids. You can be a part of that or not. Having nothing to do with her precludes you from having anything to do with our children however so think long and hard about how long you want to keep this up. It’s a shame that you can’t let go [of something that never actually happened] out of a sense of pride or principle. Grow up.”

Too much? He could word it much nicer than that! I would have been much meaner, actually. He said if he tried to be more direct with him, it would probably end with them severing their relationship. If being direct and upfront about your feelings with your parent causes them to cut you off, it’s their loss and not yours. Holding all of that inside out of fear of losing the [tenuous] connection with your parent is sad. Having to walk on eggshells just to maintain a relationship with an unstable parent because they’re your only surviving parent is tragic.

[The same could be said for having to walk on eggshells to maintain a relationship with an unstable wife.]

Ouch. Touché.

Yes, both of my parents are living.
No, I don’t understand what it’s like, clearly, to lose a parent.
No, if my mother leaves this Earth first I will not cling to my emotionally unavailable father for parent-ship. He’s not available at the moment. I’ll leave a message and he’ll get back to me like he always has. And that’s the truth of it. And that’s okay. I have other family to lean on – namely my hubs (if he hasn’t divorced me for his goddamned father by then), our possible kids and a plethora of friends I deem close enough to be considered my family.

…Once I leave inpatient psychiatric treatment because losing her will send me off the reservation.

Same if I lose him. #codependent

Sigh. In the words of my father – the wise man that he is: fuck it.

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Lots going on. Mainly feeling lost. I’m still on FMLA per my psychiatrist. I’ve been off all this month and won’t be going back until next month. I’m having a hard time keeping my medications down and we’re not sure why. My moods are cycling rapidly and I’m thinking it’s because they aren’t being absorbed properly since the surgery. I’m worried about having all this time off, how it’s going to affect my job. It gets more interesting: I have an interview for another job next week.

I reached out to a friend of mine regarding a possible job opportunity in a private practice setting. I was doing some research and found that working midnights with bipolar disorder is a no-no. Apparently most people working midnights – mainly those in the healthcare field like nurses – with bipolar disorder have circadian rhythm issues, leading to shift-work disorder (which I’ve been diagnosed with). This triggers mania and many times, hospitalization. Sound like anyone we know?!

So I got freaked, reached out to a friend and asked if she knew of any job opportunities. She reached out to her boss who reviewed my resume and offered me an interview. I miss doing therapy. I remember my old supervisor said to me ages ago while I was in training after graduate school and doing therapy in an underprivilaged area with substance abuse clients. I was burning out hard, between the clients and the administration I couldn’t seem to meet anyone’s expectations of me and wanted to quit doing therapy altogether. I told him that I wanted to work in a hospital doing intake assessments and case management to take a break. I said that it would be “one and done” – I’d never see the people again after they left; no need to build rapport and no need to terminate; they couldn’t accuse me of abandoning them if I’ve known them for 20 minutes. He told me that I was an excellent therapist and working in a hospital setting was “a waste of my talent.”

He burned out too and moved out of state.

I didn’t listen and got a job doing assessments. The population I work with tend to abuse the system. I often see the same faces – sometimes 3 times a week. I’ve had some people discharge because they tell me they are not suicidal, turn around in the parking lot and walk directly back into the hospital stating they are suicidal and homicidal and want 3 sandwiches. The record turnaround is 7 minutes – I actually counted. It is rare that I assess someone that actually needs help. I got into this profession to help people. Will I have better luck doing so in private practice? I think so. I think I will because people are paying to be there. Sounds messed up, but it’s true. This is your “managed” care/health system at work, USA. I have “managed” in quotes because there is nothing manageable about it and you, my dear reader, know it. I’d be ignoring the system by leaving, but I’m not single-handedly going to overhaul the health care and mental health system – I know that. Contrary to popular belief by many recent graduates in my field, you cannot change the world. You can only make a dent.

Here’s where my trepidation lies. I would have to file quarterly and withhold my own taxes. What a pain in the ass. I’d also have to go on the exchange for health insurance. God please no. Right now every doctor I work with is in network because they all work for my employer LOL. If I go on the exchange, there’s no guarantee they take that insurance and I’d have to pay astronomical premiums. It would take several weeks to build a caseload and get paneled with insurance companies, which means I would not be paid by the patients or insurances for those weeks. Weeks. Flipping WEEKS, man. I’m torn. Do I liquidate my house fund to pay my bills while I’m not paid for those few weeks – if I’m even offered the job? Do I leave my awesome co-workers because I hate the population I work with? The population, the crushing rules of administration and low wages are what keep me from wanting to stay are my job. I know once I get a full caseload as a private practitioner I could rake in double what I’m making now, but I’m afraid.

I’m terrified. What if I’m not good enough? What if I fall on my face? What if I messed up my taxes? What if my clients don’t like me and I end up without anyone and I’m broke? My psychiatrist told me it takes a while to build a caseload too. How do I work both jobs to cover my butt? Work midnights and days? I freaking can’t.

And Mom’s going into surgery. They said it’s going to last 8 hours and due to the definite blood loss, she had to sign a waiver permitting them to give her a blood transfusion. So I’ve been scared about that. Lately her voice has been irritating me for some reason and I’ve been blocking out most of what she says, but I think it’s me being irritable because of my mood cycling. I apologized to her if I had been short or curt with her and explained I had been tuning her out. I told her I’m scared shitless about her surgery next week. I wish she didn’t need it. She’s going to lose 20% functionality of her back in all directions. She seems excited she’ll never have to load the dishwasher again. Lucky. Not the way I would want to avoid that chore, but still lucky. I’m just scared – I keep telling myself not to tune her out. Not to put this bed vibe out there in the Universe, but if her being annoying is the last thing you ever hear her say, hear it anyway. I try to remember that and listen to her give me instructions about how to feed her fakakta fish.

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It’s been such a long while since I’ve written in here. I don’t know if it’s avoidance or forgetfulness at this point. What I do know is that I’ve backslid and I’m slithering around on my belly like a tongueless snake.

I had the surgery and I’ve lost about 50 pounds. I honestly think, for once, I’m returning to my baseline physical self. I never saw myself as this fat, huge overweight thing. Body dysmorphia is quite common for people after the surgery; my mother struggles with it daily. I wasn’t always fat – I was a skinny kid. I see myself losing weight and – don’t tell anyone – but I feel fucking awesome. I think I look fucking hot. Aside from the loose skin I’ve acquired, I feel my confidence going up. People at work keep commenting on how great I look, and while I don’t particularly enjoy that, I do like the looks I give myself. Pretty narcissistic sounding, huh? It’s not like that, though. I used to look at myself and glare. I’d give myself a once-over in the mirror, gazing at each body part with hatred and disgust. Each body part was subject to ridicule and hazing by me, every day. There were some days I couldn’t bear to look at myself at all. I’m fucking done with that. I look at myself – loose skin and all – and see someone who struggled with a lot of shit, but won’t give up. I see a woman who is not just a fighter, but gorgeous inside and out. Not just because she has a sexy husband that wants to fuck her every minute of every day (God he’s seriously relentless), but because she believes it now. She doesn’t need his validation or anyone else’s. Who knew it would only take a $40,000 surgery to get to this point? Oy vey.

So I just got out of the psych ward. Ha! Didn’t see that coming, did you? Alice: always full of surprises. It had been over a decade since I last graced their halls with my presence. The staff remembered me. I’m still trying to decide if that’s good or bad. My schedule affected my medication schedule and then I stopped taking it all together. Then I slipped into a manic phase. I told my family that I wasn’t taking that “poison” anymore, I was “normal” without it. I was also unable to concentrate on anything, I was the best at everything ever in life, I was getting 4 hours of sleep at night, and couldn’t sit still worth a damn.

Then I fell. Hard.

I couldn’t get out of bed. I wouldn’t shower for days. I would cry at nothing. Or something, anything. I’d get frustrated at little things. I just couldn’t function worth shit. So I called my psychiatrist. He told me he was having me admitted to the psych ward. I was there for a week. He put me on FMLA and here I sit, at home, taking my meds… ish.

I told him I’m fucking trained. I know better than to not take them. I know that the incidence of bipolar patients not taking their meds is higher than any other mental illness because we think we’re getting better, stop taking them and fall on our faces. I said I know the stats, I’ve read the studies, I know this shit and did it anyway.

He said, “That’s how you know it’s the disease, Alice. Not you.”

Being in the psych ward as a mental health professional was a nightmare. You think they treat you any better? Nope. Still just a fucking nut in a ward full o’ nuts. I didn’t expect to be treated better than anyone else but I think I’ve become more aware of the stigma than I had in years past. I never remember the staff being so dismissive and cold. Even the social workers, who claim to help even the playing field between the professionals and the patients were at times condescending and patronizing. I reminded them that we shared the same credentials, same degree and performed the same functions in our profession as a way of humanizing myself however I doubt it did much good as I was still cast aside when asking for simple things like respect. During a group session, one social worker stated part of their job is to educate the other staff members, including the doctors, about mental health. I actually fell out laughing. I said that, as noble as that may be, the worst stigma against mental illness I have ever seen has been in the medical community. I explained that I am terrified my co-workers will find out that I am in the psych ward, as I was in my own employer’s medical system and in our computer system it will show that I was there. I further explained that none of the doctors I work with have any interest or desire to work with psych patients; they actually express disdain for the entire population. The nurses at my hospital are mostly impatient and rude when treating a psych patient and want nothing more than for my department to hurry up and get them out of the hospital. I have social workers who actually said to me they hate working with “bipolars” because they are constantly going off their meds and have wild mood swings. So, excuse my skepticism when discussing “educating” the medical staff – I’m sure it’s going well.

The nurses and nurse’s aides were a fucking nightmare. It didn’t help that they’d rather surf Facebook and Instagram than do their fucking jobs. Aside for a select few, they treated me like I didn’t know my own body. And, not to sound like a dick, but like they knew more about psych than I did. As someone who’s been on both sides – a patient and a professional – I can safely say that’s bullshit. And as an employee at that hospital I knew corporate policy, so they couldn’t fuck me around when it came to that either. Plus, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been hospitalized about 7 times. Go fuck yourself; I know how this goes. I wasn’t in the mood to be fucked with. Not to mention the fact that my psychiatrist is on staff and we’ve been working together for over a decade. I know that he always has my best interests at heart and will go to bat for me (and did) when I need him to.

Like this:

I’m getting my stomach stapled.
Literally stapled.
They are gonna cut me open, fiddle about, find it in there somewhere, cut it off and staple it.

Let’s flashback for just a second. Husband says he wants me to be more active, worries about my health and wants me to be healthy and care about myself.

In other words, put down the fork.

No, no it’s cool. He was right to say something. I would have just kept going and going until he found himself in someone else’s bed like my father did. So no, this was good. …I cried like a bitch that day. I couldn’t believe he called me fat. [Let’s be fair, he didn’t use those words.
Fuck off! It was insinuated!] Anyway.

Right now, he’s in a transition period. He’s changing careers from computers to law enforcement.

Uh-huh. That’s what I said, too.

He was training for the physical exams and blew out his knee. I told him to go to the doctor; he won’t go.

He’s been working midnights since he was 19. That’s almost half his lifetime. Now he’s starting to have memory problems. I told him to go to the doctor.

He. Won’t. Go.

[sigh] I fail to understand this. This whole “men don’t go to the doctor” shit is not an excuse. Lemme ‘splain – FAST FORWARD:

I’M HAVING MY STOMACH CUT OFF AND STAPLED. Why? So I can be more active and more healthy, as requested. So I won’t die of a diabetes-related illness or a heart attack. So I can hang around with his fine yet frustrating ass longer. So I can bear our children without making them motherless or him a widow in the process. Son of a bitch.

Let me be clear, he didn’t ask me to have the surgery. But it would be nice to know that his hypertensive (yep, has high blood pressure – doesn’t follow doc’s orders and I don’t think he’s fully med compliant) behind was at least taking care of himself as much as I’m trying to take care of myself. If I’m willing to go to this length to be healthy, he can make a fucking doctor’s appointment.

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It’s less than 2 weeks until I go under the knife. I’m not cutting myself – scout’s honor! I decided it’s time to take some accountability for my wicked ways and have gastric bypass surgery. I’ve gotten mixed reviews from my friends and colleagues – even my therapist, which was the most disconcerting.

The main problem has always been my psychological attachment to food. Food was a reward, my shoulder to cry on, my close friend in good times and in bad. Food never abandoned me or made me feel worthless – until one day I looked in the mirror and saw what food did to my body. A hundred pounds too late, I realized that food wasn’t a friend; it was a crutch. I needed food to comfort me, I needed it to celebrate and I needed it to mourn. Without it, I felt incomplete.

Well, I’ve since learned that I can have a good time in life without being food-focused. The problem is the habit is so difficult to break. I snack here, gulp there and — boom! I’m back up, 100 pounds over again.

My back aches constantly, I get winded brushing my fucking hair, elevators creak when I get on (don’t bullshit me – I know it’s me), and I have a fupa (for all you n00bs out there, it actually stands for “front upper pu**y area”). I swore to myself I’d stop eating when I saw the beginning of a fupa. Guess what? Little bastard snuck up on me. Nothing like putting powder under your fupa to prevent chafing and sweating. Goddamit – not cool.

Anyway. Ahem. I view this surgery as my Antabuse. For those not familiar with Antabuse, it’s a medication prescribed for people with a severe alcohol addiction. The medication blocks the absorption of alcohol in the liver, causing it to free-float in the blood in a higher concentration than if it was metabolized by the liver. This causes some really bad side effects like nausea, vomiting, headache – your worse hangover, basically. The point of the medication is to deter people with alcoholism to not drink, thus avoiding those shitty side effects.

Gastric bypass is to me as Antabuse is to an alcoholic. My stomach will go from being the size of a football to that of a EGG. I will be forced to take small sips of water, small bites of food – the right food – for the rest of my days. I will lose these 100 pounds, yes, but I will be forced to view food as a tool of survival, not as a coping skill. Eating sugar will likely cause me great distress due to dumping syndrome*. I’m okay with that. Something has to give, y’all because I’m tired of feeling like this. My back aches. My feet hurt. My A1C is not good – I’m pre-diabetic now. My cholesterol is high. My waistline is higher. It hurts to move (what was that about exercise?). I clearly don’t know how to eat sugar in small amounts and I don’t know how to control myself despite years of trying. I will make myself do it through biological means to save my life.

My mom’s mom? Died from atherosclerosis officially, but went through 4 years of ESRD* on dialysis before the dementia hit. You know what causes the renal failure? Diabetes from obesity later in life.

My mom’s dad? Died from a sudden heart attack. Had to buy an extra-large casket. He almost didn’t fit in the crypt. He was known for eating wild game. His typical breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs (cooked in bacon grease), grits, biscuits and gravy, sausage and bacon. On the fucking daily. Oh, and he was an insulin-dependent diabetic.

My mom had the gastric bypass after a lifetime of morbid obesity and watching her parents die from obesity-related deaths. As much shit as I talk about her a lot of the time, she has been my rock in this. She’s been with me to all of my appointments and has talked to me about her struggles with her weight and her reasoning behind her final decision to have such an extreme surgery. She said she’d support me no matter what decision I made.

I was so unsupportive when she had her surgery – she didn’t tell me until she’d already scheduled it. I felt betrayed and angry. I didn’t get to go on this journey with her and she never explained all her reasons why. I didn’t understand then that it wasn’t for me to understand her reasons. They were hers and hers alone. She never lashed back at me for the nasty things I said. She just kept her head up. If she cried I never knew. That’s a mother; that’s a testament to real strength. Cause I would have slapped the shit out of me and told me all about myself.

Anyway. My family is riddled with obesity and disease; I won’t let their past dictate my future.

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Hopefully this is the darkest corner in which you’ll have found me and the deepest within the forest of depression I’ll ever hide.

Before I finished my last post was the first time in a very long time I had come to suicide. The sheer amount of stress and depression was all consuming and swallowed me whole.

I’m still fighting my way out, but at least I’m able to function right now. Over the weekend I wasn’t taking care of my hygiene, wouldn’t get out of bed, ate my husband’s entire birthday cake, 2.5 pints of ice cream, and wouldn’t engage in day to day human activities like talking. I blew up on my mother for asking me to pick up something off the floor.

My husband says I don’t treat him like he matters when I’m this depressed. He says I don’t treat him like a husband but like a buddy or a friend. It comes from years of pushing people away. Every time someone gets close to me, I step back. It’s so strange to never live in the same household as my father and pick up his traits.

I have 2 friends – Alissa and Elizabeth – who are both very close to me. I’ve known Elizabeth for over 20 years. We reconnected a few years back and have grown closer since. She’s truly a good friend. She tries to psychoanalyze me at times which I’m not the biggest fan of (not qualified to do!), but I know she means well. Here’s the deal: for every inch she scooches closer, I pull back six. It’s not something I do consciously, it’s just done. Moving closer would make me too vulnerable and I’m in no position for that.

My other friend, Alissa is also a counselor. She suffers with depression (I personally think she’s got more than depression, but I’m not in the business of diagnosing my friends) like I do so we commiserate together. We both work in the same area with the same population so, again, we commiserate about work stress and drama. She and I have grown very close. As she grows closer or needs more support, I fucking run – I don’t understand why. When I need support, I hide from her until I feel well enough to express my feelings without being under suspicion of being suicidal. I’m always afraid she’ll petition me or send the police to my house to check on me because she’s a counselor. I refuse to go into a hospital involuntarily – I know what they’re like and I’m not ruining my career by sitting next to a patient in a group session. Fuck that shit. I’ve always gone voluntarily.

Back to the husband thing, I always back away. I told him I distance myself from everyone because it’s habit at this point and – as much sense as this doesn’t make – if I did commit suicide, I will have put so much distance between me and everyone else, it’s like it wouldn’t have mattered much if I was gone. Just a buddy, not a wife.

H: “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Me: “Depression doesn’t make any sense. What kind of disease has you thinking that in order to survive you have to die? Our purpose as humans is to propagate the species. We can’t do that if we’re dead. Depression isn’t based in any reality; my thinking isn’t real. It makes you focus on what it wants you to focus on – which is mainly your depression, nothing else. But you always matter; you’ve always mattered.”

I explained that it’s difficult talking to him about my deepest and darkest thoughts and feelings because he’s never been there. While I’m delighted he hasn’t, explaining what Hell looks like and how it felt versus describing how it feels to someone who’s already been there are 2 separate things. (I can’t go to support groups – I may run into patients there.). So I keep to myself. I understand my Hell and I know my pain. I’ll get through this if it kills me – whether by my hand or G-d’s.

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I met with my psychologist this past Monday. Aside from reminiscing about all my psychiatrists of the past (and their behind-the-scene proclivities), we talked about the moment I went nuts …no I was right. Went nuts is totally appropriate here.

She said that age five, I tried to kill myself. I know; I was there. I don’t remember the circumstances, only the where, the when and how. I remember my disappointment in it not working and my becoming even more depressed. I tried a few times. As a child that size, your resources and vocabulary are limited. I felt this deep overwhelming panic, anxiety, sadness, loneliness, hopelessness, anger, fear and helplessness and felt I had nowhere to turn and didn’t have the right words to express any of it. So it appears, according to my psychologist’s theory, that my brain’s chemistry changed the first time. My body’s arousal system and my neurotransmitters went nuts.

I was majorly depressed and disordered by age 6 with at least 2 suicide attempts under my belt. By age 16 I was full-scale self-injuring on the daily; it looked my dermatologist was Edward Scissorhands. My mood was all over the place due to my hormones and my outright refusal to take medication until the next year when I was almost hospitalized for suicidal threats and increasingly intensive self-injury of which I still carry the scars.

I went to college at age 17, fully medicated for my safety and for those around me but it had little effect. I went to a very large, very competitive, pseudo-Ivy League school. I had very little social support and many of those I met didn’t fail to remind me of my social and racial status. Yes, I was a part of the 49% of the students receiving financial aid and yes, I’m black. (No, asshole – I got here on merit, not affirmative action. In between slicing and dicing I managed to pull a 3.9 GPA out of my ass in high school. I actually had people make comments in class about this shit to my face. Unbelievable.)

Anyway, let me back up a bit. Welcome Week, freshman year. Exciting for kid fresh out of high school – getting to party in college! I had arrived. I was grown as far as I was concerned. I could stay out late, meet guys, new people – have a blast! My best friends from high school, now attending the rival college, were coming down for the weekend and we were going partying together so I was excited. The four of us get some food at a local hangout near my dorm and start walking around campus to find a party that looks cool. One of my friends, Tom, was a sophomore so he knew everything about frat parties since he was a frat member at Alpha Chi What-The-Fuck-Ever so we followed his lead. We walk into this relatively jumping party – just wall to wall people, a DJ, jungle juice, the whole shebang. Jim and Raquel start dancing (they were dating) and vanish into the mist of the crowd. Maya, a sophomore at our school, fucks off somewhere, probably trying to find a rich white guy (she has a type – has since high school) and leaves me dancing by my lonesome.

At a frat party.
My first night on campus.
Awesome.
Well, this is the start of a Lifetime movie.

Boy did I call it. This fucking guy comes up to me, introduces himself as “[inaudible due to the loud music played by the DJ]” and points toward the center of the dance floor. I nod “okay.” There’s 60 goddamn people on this dance floor. I can’t be abducted in the middle of a crowd of 60 people. It’ll be fine. So we start dancing; no big deal. He then moves behind me and puts his hands around my waist. I can tell he’s drunk; I’m not having a good time anymore. I need to find my crew and get the fuck out of here. I’m looking for my crew so we can di di mao. Before I get a chance to break away, he puts his hands down my underwear and ::ding-dong:: WELCOME TO COLLEGE. Unwanted sexual contact. I grab his hand and pull it out of my pants and walk away. Of course NOW my friends are ready to leave and find another party.

Right before we go, this asshole gives me his number. He wouldn’t leave me alone until he could put it in my phone. He was too drunk to spell his name right. Unless he was actually named after a tennis shoe. I never told my friends – he was drunk, right? No one’s fault – blame it on the alcohol… I never told anyone. Just buried it along with everything else.

Ah sophomore year. This one’s gonna be tougher to talk about. I met this gem on the back stoop of my dorm at the beginning of the school year. We went on 1 or 2 dates. He dropped me off at my dorm room and when he hinted that he wanted to take things further than a kiss goodnight, I told him I had a rule: 6 months of monogamy before sex. He seemed outraged. I made it clear I didn’t care – those are my rules. Next date, we decided to stay in, were watching “Law and Order” when he said he had to tell me something: he was on parole for armed robbery.

Uhhh. He knows where I live. He knows where my family lives. He’s 6’2”, 245 lbs – all muscle. I was 5’4”, 145 lbs. I was fucking terrified.

Someone tell me please: When an armed robber comes to your living quarters every few nights for several MONTHS, what do you do? When you feel like you’re not given many options considering their size and tendencies to be ARMED? Fucking terrified. This went on for 3 months. During that time, I isolated from my friends and family, I was “stealthed” countless times which resulted in a case of (CURED!) chlamydia.

When I finally broke down and spoke to the only person who I thought would listen, my ex-boyfriend Anthony, he helped give me the strength to leave. I left and the man stalked me in my dorm room for a few months. It took a key card to get into the building but somehow he would get in and leave messages on my door calling me “bitch,” “slut,” and “fuck you.” I reported it to campus security but it was useless. I moved out of the dorms into an apartment with Anthony the next year; we got back together after this.

Anthony is a story for another time.

So the intimidation-rape is trauma #2. Trauma #1 was whatever happened at age 5 that triggered my suicide attempt – that is a mystery to me as of yet. I’ve told my psychologist I’m considering going to a hypnotist because I’m tired of this Swiss cheese stuff – this holey memory of mine is ridiculous. We either figure this out or we don’t. My psychologist said something that has been weighing heavy on my mind all week. She said that her theory is the chemical imbalances that have been caused by trauma can be reversed by re-training the brain.

…Excuse me? If I’m understanding this correctly, bipolar disorder can be reversed through behavioral or cognitive behavioral therapy. Are you shitting me?

I’ve just been in limbo all fucking week, letting that sink in. Think about it: if that is true, I’ve been able to fix myself this whole time. I’m like Dorothy at the end of Wizard of Oz. She had the shoes throughout her whole walk through Oz — the bullshit with the Witch, the Monkeys, the talking head of the Wizard, all of it — and she could have gone right home. Unreal! While I understand in Wizard it’s a little different – she needed to understand how good she had it in Kansas. Someone tell me the point of walking this shit-brick road? Where’s the fun in french kissing death? There is none!

If this is true – what if I don’t get better? It’ll be just something else I’ve failed at. Can’t kill myself right* and can’t heal myself, so I’m stuck in the middle. Fucking perfect.

*Ok, I may have lost a few of you there. As a mental health professional, that’s a horrible thing to say and hear. However, as a someone with a mental health disorder I can say that I may speak for a few people out there who have felt this way. when they wake up in the hospital, alive. I did – I was pissed off. You feel like a failure because you didn’t complete a “goal,” however this isn’t a goal – long term – you want, even if your depression says otherwise. When I say I didn’t do it right, I mean that I failed and there’s no escape from this disease on either end – through death or living. It’s fucking maddening and it makes me feel hopeless for a painless life. While I appreciate the empathy I have gained for others like me, I wish for a life like anyone else’s. I wish for happiness. I’ve never known what that’s like because even what I’m happy I’m always wondering when the feeling is going to end.